


Five Times Sam Understood (that Destiel is real)

by accioidioto, Nikita (accioidioto)



Series: Journeys in the Impala [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, POV Sam Winchester, Past Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2018-12-25 13:48:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12037194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accioidioto/pseuds/accioidioto, https://archiveofourown.org/users/accioidioto/pseuds/Nikita
Summary: Five times Sam observes on the complexity that is Destiel.





	1. The One With Balthazar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Books.

Sam’s gigantic legs are spread out against the seat, head resting at a right angle against the window. Castiel sits in the back, flipping through books and books and books, a whole stack peering curiously at him.

(Yes. They have eyes. Sam doesn’t ask.)

Dean is tapping his fingers irregularly against the steering wheel, irritatingly offbeat to _Eye of the Tiger_ . Sam doesn’t know what happened between him and Cas, and doesn’t want to ask. This _thing_ of theirs has become too much for him to sanely puzzle out.

Sam speaks first, tired of the thick silent weighing down on his chest. “Find anything good, Cas?”

He sighs, fingers running down the length of the book. It squawks indignantly at him when he slams it shut, frustration evident. “Oh, shut up,” Cas tells the book. “All signs point to high-powered succubae, a group of them most likely. It doesn’t say how to kill them, though.”

“Why don’t you ask _Balthazar_ ?” Dean sneers. His face is tight, age showing in the frown lines near his forehead, and Sam would very much like to punch Dean in the face. “Since he was oh-so-helpful in stealing you the books from the Library of Eden. Which, by the way, _can put you in grave danger_.”

“AH-HAH,” Sam wants to shout. “You, are jealous, Dean-o,” he wants to say, waggle a finger in his face and receive an according bitchface-please-stop.

Castiel sighs, hair blowing crazily. “I think I will,” he informs them snidely, and disappears in a flurry of commotion and theatrical billowing.

"See," Book #1 says, “now you made him mad. That’s not the way to go about seeking for coitus.” Then it _winks_.

“Even the books can tell that you want him, Dean,” Sam offers.

They chorus in agreement.

“All of you, SHUT UP, or I will throw you out!” Dean roars. “That includes you, Sammy. Brother or not.”

His knuckles are white against the steering wheel, so Sam decides to leave the topic alone.

When the sun is setting, slowly, and poetically casting a rosy glow over the interior of the Impala, Sam falls asleep, just in time with Castiel’s reappearance.

Two voices invade his dreams- Dean’s, and Cas’s, each soothing murmurs and unspoken apologies.


	2. Castiel, Dean, and the importance of Soul-Marks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When April kills Castiel.

It’s when they barge in on April, dagger sliding in neatly in the center of Castiel’s chest, and Sam is witness to the desperation with which Dean fights to save Cas, that he understands, _oh_.

Oh.

Ezekiel asks for permission to enter, Sam accepts. His thoughts collide, take over, grace briefly twining with Sam’s soul.

_Oh my_ , Ezekiel says. _Well, shall we start?_

_Yes._ Sam.

Power flows through him, cold grace slithering out of his hand like a conduit of electricity. They view Dean’s eyes light up, legs tripping over each other to get to Castiel.

_Rest, Sam Winchester._ Ezekiel.

_Right now?_ Sam.

_This is a private moment, child. A moment of serenity between a fallen one and his soul-mark_. Ezekiel.

_Pssh. Soul-mark?_ Sam.

Great sense of amusement. _All your research of that grace entwined in your brother’s soul, and you don’t have a name for it?_ Ezekiel.

_No_. Sam.

_For when an angel’s grace is imparted on another’s soul, it is then decreed that the claim is forever a soul-mark. This is the name our Father gave us, and so that is what they are._ Ezekiel

_Nighty-night, then_. Sam.

***

He wakes up, two different familiar pressures of hands resting on his shoulders. Blue. Green. Friend, and Brother.

Sam blinks, bone-tired, mouth feeling like quills have taken up residence inside of them. Possession tends to do that.

“Sammy?” Dean asks. “Are you ok?”

Sam nods his assent, and then mutters, “Help me get up.”

Dean slides an arm under his shoulders, and lifts him up, muscle straining the shirt so that lines form in between his shoulder blades. He looks at his brother, and wants to ask if they’re okay now, him and Cas.  _ Have you absolved your guilt? _

Cas rests a hand on his back, and looks at him with the saddest, bluest, puppy-dog eyes that Sam has ever seen. “I wish I still had some grace; I could heal you.”

Sam wants to roll his eyes. He almost does, but that would interrupt Cas’s Moping Time. Enough with the Righteous Man act. God, him and Dean are so alike- they both feel the need to put all the blame on themselves, all the time.

Even though, they stagger out, Sam being supported by Dean, a comforting heat emanating from Castiel’s hand. Before they get into the Impala, however, Dean stops him.

“Thank you,” he says.

“For what?” Sam attempts to lean against the car, but it’s hot, so he yelps and jumps away, shaking his long hair.

Dean looks at him with unconcealed fondness (and amusement, let’s be real). “For Ezekiel, you dummy. Thank you, for saying yes.”

Sam shifts, weight moving from one leg to another, his bad knee groaning in protest. “S’nothing,” he insists. After a moment’s pause, he ads “Jerk,” because it’s getting too much like a chick-flick moment.

Dean beams at him, ridiculous eye wrinkles popping up again. He’ll never tell his brother, but Sam thinks that smile takes years off of him. “Bitch.”

He won't analyze too much that it's there because Sam helped save Castiel.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Leviathans are free, Sam watches Dean closely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little strict to the episode's plot, but different dialogue and actions, as usual.

Cas has just walked into the lake, stupid trench coat fluttering, floating slowly towards the bank. And Dean is looking, looking, searching for something that won’t ever come. Black goo erupts from the lake, but that stupid trench coat outraces it, propelled, and reaches them.

Sam is feeling numb in his chest, numb in his fingers and his toes. Castiel, dead again, trying to save them. He was their friend, maybe closer to Dean, humanity being brought to the surface because of Dean, but he was still  _ their _ friend.

Dean bends over, and picks up the stupid trench coat. He folds it, neatly, the way he used to fold Sam’s clothing on the weekends before school. Sleeves in, down up, up down, fold in the collar, smooth out the wrinkles. 

(It doesn’t seem to matter that it’s soggy wet, stinking of the marshes, a little bit of the black goo hugging the very right bottom corner of the cloth.)

Dean’s jaw ticks, clenches and unclenches. Sam stands there, silent, not knowing what to say. 

“Let’s go, man. There isn’t anything else we can do.” Those words feel awkward and heavy in his mouth, words he has said thousands of time, tragic hunts inextricably bound to each other.

And yet. Yet— 

***

Dean’s at a place called Muggsy’s, drunk and miserable, smelling of gunpowder and holy oil. Sam sits, silently, trying to figure out a way into his brother’s head.

“I never told him.”

“What?” Sam asks. In this situation, it’s best to let him ramble. And there is a sinkhole opening in the bottom of his stomach, because he knows where this is going. He  _ knows _ .

“Of, you know. The thing. Whatever it was.”

“Dean, you’re not making sense here, buddy.” Better to let him state it, get it out.

Dean makes a noise of frustration and pushes back his hair, fist worryingly pulling the strands out of his scalp. Clearly, he’s not in control of his limbs, and that indicates an incredibly impressive amount of alcohol.

“The thing,” he says again, and his face is slowly becoming ashamed. Too much stuff needs to be formulated into words, and spit out.

Sam understands. He fucking knew the whole time, and he can’t help the bitterness that rises up through his mouth. It’s sticky and persistent, something that exists when he can take a step back and  _ think _ . He sighs, and says, “Yeah, the thing.” 

The bartender sees the tall guy signal him, weirdly huge hand awkwardly flapping in the air. He closes Pretty Boy’s tab.

***

After Amy, Sam leaves. Anger is thrumming in his veins, hot and brittle and fast, a tempest waiting to be released. He can see Dean in the back, eyes watching yet another person fade away, and become a spot on the horizon.

(It’s not the first time Sam has left him, either. It feels a lot like abandonment, and the same sick feelings swirl in his gut, and he wants to pull over, to stop, but he can’t.)

What he doesn’t tell his brother is that he can’t handle Dean’s stoicism in the face of everything. They never spoke about the night at Muggsy’s, Dean’s alcohol-induced honesty vanishing into thin air.

His eyes flicker up to the mirror, and stay there until he can’t see Dean anymore. Then, and only then, he pulls over, and pukes on the side of the road.

Sam’s hands are shaking, again, déja vu of Stanford and Jess crashing over him like waves.

He gets back in, adjusts the rearview mirror, and drives away, away, away.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel is back.

Friday Gabriel comes back. Castiel's eyes widen, blue the only color. Sam can physically observe the metaphysical recognition, lessons of the uniqueness of grace burnt forever into the back of his mind, smells of old books and the stale summer air wrapping around him.

(Castiel had said that Gabriel’s burnt like a fierce trail of colors, lonely purples and sad blues and fierce whites. His eyes had shined with the closest expression of sadness he ever showed, memories awaking in fresh waves.)

He stands up, and knocks Gabriel into a clumsy hug. Gabriel’s eyes widen, surprise knocking some expression onto the newly recreated body.

He laughs, vocal cords rusty from disuse. “You’ve changed, little brother.”

Sam looks away, an odd out of body experience occurring right before him. It’s too private, and he tugs on Dean’s arm until his brother gives in and stumbles away.

(In the kitchen, a snapshot of history is repeated, as one angel realizes where the other’s heart lays.)

***

Castiel insists on throwing a celebratory dinner party. Dean agrees, because he is a sucker for anything that possibly involves pie, and also because he is a sucker for Cas. Sam watches them go, their dark head and fair one bent together, and leaves them, alone.

Because Gabriel is back now. And they never spoke after that night in Ohio. He can feel, if he concentrates hard enough, the phantom press of fingers digging bruises into his hips, the ghost quick press of lips.

And then Gabriel is gone, just as fast as he came, this time tugging Castiel in his wake.

***

“Sam? Dean? It’s uh, Castiel. Um. Is this button the correct one?”

“Yes, Castiel. It’s red. That means it’s recording.”

“Oh…”

“It’s still recording, baby brother.”

“Oh. Anyways. I am just calling to let you know we are both fine. We just need to take care of something. We’ll-”

“-you’ll-”

“-I’ll be back soon. Alright, then. Goodbye.”

Silence.

“Castiel. It’s still recording.”

“Oh!”

* * *

 

“Hey Sam, this is Castiel. Gabriel is no longer with me, but that’s temporary. Is Dean’s phone broken? I have not been able to reach him. Goodbye.”

* * *

 

“Sam. This is Castiel. Gabriel is with me now, and I have to go but, I, uh, I think we’ll be finished soon. And Sam? Despite what Gabriel says, I think he will stick around. You know why.”

* * *

 

“Sam. Tell your brother to pick up the goddamn phone.”

* * *

 

“Sam. Tell your brother I’m not leaving for Heaven. Then tell him to call me.”

***

 

“Call Cas.” They’re sitting at a table in Chili’s, looking out at the highway.

“What?” Dean is busy shaking a shitload of salt over his beef, forehead tightly crinkled in concentration.

“He’s not gonna leave to Heaven, Dean. He’s just helping Gabriel.”

“I know that,” Dean says, and it's funny how stiff he’s become.

The sun burns Sam’s retinas, but he still looks at it. “You love him,” he says, and it’s a statement of fact. 

“You love Gabriel,” Dean retorts.

Sam closes his eyes, and it  _ hurts _ . His chest hurts, and his eyes hurt, and his bad knee hurts. 

“Yes, Dean.,” he says patiently, like trying to explain to a little kid that, no. We can’t have that dog. “But it’s different.”

“How? Huh? You wanted to talk? So talk.”

He doesn’t want to say the words, and there is too much all at once. He can remember Jess, sunlight casting a halo of her blond hair. How she tasted of raspberries and California sun, literature book open in her lap, body twisting to kiss him.

And then there is Gabriel. Gabriel is darker and older, death and blood a hymn from his followers, dark stains of his past a trail on his heels. He’s sharper, with wicked humor, and crueler eyes.

(He never told Gabriel what used to roll so easily off his tongue.  _ I love you _ , you bastard.)

“Nevermind, Dean.”

“Hey, man.” his brother says, and he reaches out and pokes Sam’s arm. “You alright?”

“Call Castiel. He’s worried.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't given up on this, I promise. It's busy as heck right now, with PSAT's and SAT's stuff, you know the drill. Swear I'll post soon!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally get their shit together- thanks to some (unconventional) prodding from Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What would you like to see as the bonus? Leave your answer in a comment below.  
> A) Destiel  
> B) Sabriel  
> C) Destiel and Sabriel

Gabriel used to show up whenever he felt like it, a _snap_ of the temporal energy, and he was there, a flutter of wings, gone. Sam had gotten used to turning around and finding Gabriel in the backseat, and Dean no longer said _Cas_ in that bewilderingly love-stricken voice every time they heard wings.  

(As if Castiel would ever leave Dean to return to Heaven. They’re like two meteorites hurtling towards each other, just waiting to crash and burn. In a nice way, Sam thinks.)

(He had thought this vigorously towards Gabriel, when he was bored of the eyefucking between their brothers. Gabriel had vigorously made you’re-disgusting faces.)

But now, he doesn’t show up. Because God brought back Gabriel, but not Michael or Raphael. So he’s back, running errands for God but not staying and talking, like he used to.

Like Before. When he was just Gabriel, not pagan god and only archangel, madness thinly cloaked under obedience.

~~~~

_Sweat rolls down the side of his face, perspiration down the line of his back. Gabriel moves over him, and everything is slippery-slidey, better than good, hurry up, hurry up Gabriel, bastard._

Sam wakes, panting,  shoves his face into the pillow, and resolves to forget about the motel, and the phantom adrenaline firing him up, uncertainty of Gabriel like an ever present cloud.

~~~~

They come back on a Thursday. Sam is sitting in the motel room, not paying attention to anything in particular.

“Where’s Dean?” Cas asks.

And, goddamnit, it’s like Cas is vibrating with the very need to _see_ , to _touch_ , to just be _there_ with Dean, and Sam is so fucking tired of it.

“He’s currently pretending to be bad at pool,” Sam snaps. His temper is snapping, his nerves are snapping, his strings are snapping, and he will become adrift, loose like a puppet without purpose.

“If you see him before he hooks up with a random dude or lonely girl, tell him you love him, alright? Because this _thing_ of yours is starting to get really old, really fast.”

His lungs are on fire. He’s breathing fire, and he feels the same buzz as when he was addicted to Ruby’s blood, and it’s dark and nasty, because he is in love with an angel who will never love him back.

At least Dean and Castiel have each other. At least they love each other. At least its tangible, so much so that he can taste it, in the way his brother looks at Castiel.

Cas currently looks like a kicked puppy. It’s hard not to feel bad, and who is Sam to take out his frustrations on the nearest possible angel?

So he softens his tone. “Cas, just tell him you love him. He just needs a little push, okay, because he’s obtuse when it comes to his feelings.”

Cas stares at him, liquid blue eyes, and steps forward, one hand awkwardly hovering in the air, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

“Don’t give up on Gabriel, Sam.”

Then he goes.

~~~~

They check into a different motel room, at around 12. Sam wishes them happy fucking.

(Though it still bites in his throat to think of the Happy Ever After merrily happening in the other room. 

He’ll never admit it, but he wants that too. 

More specifically, he wants it with Gabriel.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS NOT THE FINAL CHAPTER- IT WILL BECOME MORE COMPLETE AT THE END OF THIS WEEK! I JUST FELT LIKE IT WAS UNFAIR FOR ME TO NOT UPDATE FOR A LONG TIME.

Sam is on his computer, looking, hunting for a case, when Gabriel  _ whooshes _ into his room, trailing the smell of sugar. Sam nearly has a heart attack.

“What the hell-” he starts. Stops, because there is a cut down the side of Gabriel’s abdomen, and it’s pulsating out blood and the white-blue light of his grace. “What happened to you?”

Gabriel smiles at him, all teeth. “I got into a small skirmish with one of my brothers,” he says, unconvincingly cheerful. “Are you just gonna stand there all day and  _ gape _ , Winchester, or should I cut my losses and seek help elsewhere?”

Sam bitchfaces at him, but he does get the first-aid kit (and some alcohol). He tosses a roll of gauze on the bed, and says, “Sit down.”

“What?”

He rolls his eyes at the ceiling. “I said,  _ sit down _ . A slice down your abdomen will limit the mobility of your arm. It’s better if I patch it up.”

“So eager to see me naked?”

Sam refuses to dignify that with a response. “Shut up,” he snaps.

Gabriel complies, and it’s then that Sam realizes that Gabriel is dressed up in one of those awful formal suits, the kind Sam is forced to wear when impersonating FBI agents. His brown tie dangles down towards the bed, and when he takes it off, there is a darker area around the neck, stained dark brown with dried blood.

Gabriel sees Sam’s expression. He sighs heavily. “Don’t ask.”

Sam doesn’t. Instead, he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, because he actually  _ cares _ about getting dried blood on his clothes. 

Sam goes to clean the wound, and has to stop. Because. Because.

His fingers reach out, and trace the black veins spider-webbing across Gabriel’s entire chest. It’s like cracks have appeared, in an unbreakable piece of glass. Unbreakable, but not unscarred. The rest of his skin is still smooth, still muscled, still tan.

As his fingertips ghost towards the center of Gabriel’s chest, where the focus point is, Gabriel’s hand reaches out and stops him, trapping his forearm in a vice-like grip. Sam doesn’t wince.

“Don’t,” Gabriel says.

“Is that where-” Sam’s voice is scratchy. “-where Lucifer killed you?”

Gabriel doesn’t answer. “I thought you were supposed to help me clean the wound, Sam, not rehash past failures.” His eyes are so,  _ so _ bitter, like the day the figured out his true identity.

“Right,” Sam says. “Sorry,” Sam says.

+

Later, as he drags the suit jacket back over his shoulders, Gabriel tells him, “God can bring you back physically scarred, if He so desires. As a reminder of a failing.” Gabriel looks more and more like one of the Angel Pod People. 

Sam shakes his head at him,” But it’s not your fault.”

Gabriel turns around and forces Sam’s head to turn towards him, lightning-quick and angry. “I know,” he says. “But what can you do when all failures are blamed on your ‘abandonment?’” 

Gabriel’s fingers are digging bruises into his chin, but Sam doesn’t mention it, because Gabriel struck a nerve, and he knows it.

“Nothing,” Sam manages.

“Exactly.” The pressure loosens up, the forming bruises get healed, and warm breath ghosts over his face before Gabriel exits.

It smells like burnt sugar.

+

Three weeks later, the door to the Bunker opens as Castiel is using some of his grace to heal Sam’s shoulder. There are three nasty slashes up the side of back of his shoulder blade, courtesy of a demon’s knife.

“Hello?” Gabriel asks. His hair is slicked back, face clean-shaven. He has the same midnight-blue suit on as every other angel, ever, and his shiny shoes squeak on the linoleum.

“Gabriel,” Castiel greets. The cuts on Sam’s  shoulder blade are healed.

Gabriel’s brows furrow slightly, and his stupid suit shimmers, like a mirage, and then reforms into his old clothing. “You okay?” he says.

Sam shrugs his shirt back on as Cas steps away. “As much as is the normal.” And this is true- Sam always seems to have one bruise healing, another cut scabbing. He can point out a mosaic of injuries, memories of their deliverance lost to him.

“I need to talk to you, Castiel.” Gabriel is unusually serious, no joke flying out of his mouth.

Dean suddenly appears, and hovers like an aggressive, but non threatening dog. “Why don’t you tell all of us?” 

Gabriel looks at him, amusement glittering his eyes. “Fine, Winchester.” He sniffs the air, and then smiles at him, much like a shark. “But first I want some pie.”

Dean frowns.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS IM SO SORRYYYY. I know it's been a really long time since I have updated-- this is a sneak peek. Definitely will post soon- probs around Saturday?? ALSO! I am looking for a beta- if you are interested, hit me up via Tumblr (@accio-idioto) or at the gmail in my bio.


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